SLO MO

As he speaks, it is not such good news,

I start to process

“it’s back...need to get it under control,

or we’re talking months...”

Not what I expected or prepared for

a silent thud as I fall back to earth,

so many questions windmill, struggling to form 

as this sinks to the shadows of my soul

there to leave an immovable mark

For a few moments time slows to eternity

no reference points, everything blurs and swirls

I am at the centre and yet removed

lost in a familiarity that I cannot touch

I am called back to consciousness by a sound,

small at first, then swelling

out of place, unforeseen 

yet familiar, frightening, it rattles my heart

the sobs of my wife

Pent up tears, now released, of realisation

of compassion, love, heartbreak, frustration

of anger, rage against impotence

an elemental fear

And I am the cause, the reason, the source

I pull her into my arms, away from the medics

I try to comfort, say things helpful

I rationalise but it doesn’t stop

and for the first time I feel helpless, lost,

aghast at the pain I have forced into a life undeserving

What have I done?  Why?

BIKING SHANGHAI 

Tour de Puxi Night Stage 

Adrenalin pistons my legs

as we surge into the dense sweaty night

a fifty strong throng

of unruly, liberated

don’t give a dam cyclists

intent on claiming the streets

for a brief heady moment

We blur past a monochrome

concrete landscape

neon bejewelled, its music

the dun sound of engines and wheels

chorussed by random horns

Around me riders pass, fall back

weave into slender spaces

chat, smile, touch fists

encourage each other

signal hazards

hold up traffic for the pack

in an unspoken camaraderie

spun by twin wheels

A water stop crowds the pavement

outside a store

smiles, sweat dripping

stories told, names exchanged

moments of silence

a couple passing ask what and why

Then on again into the sodium lit night

contracting, puffing, stretching like 

a cloud of starlings

approximating their wheeling freedom

on streets built for chaotic order

On to the Bund

in a forbidden flypast

a disrespectful nod 

to the city’s sombre monuments

of a distant age

We end in a tired gaggle at a bridge

and a long-bearded old man

squeals his bike to a juddering halt

to wave in a smile

and take cheering applause from us

Pushing wearily home alone

along silent, shadowy streets

my heart still beats with the 

pedal pumping, wheel whirring energy that fuels

my happy bed-seeking soul

WHAT IS IT ABOUT CANCER?

an attack

on your smallest

most vital element

your cells

the tiny source of everything you are

cancer reprogrammes cells

not to create and sustain

instead

to consume and destroy

to pull down

everything they were born to build

it’s a murderous suicide

a perverse unnatural act of nature 

rather than giving life 

by doing their job and dying

cells with cancer find a new purpose

live a bit more 

and in their new vitality 

they kill

there is no alien intruder

no external wound to blame

it is life’s order reversed

turned upside down

a civil war within

cell against brother cell

this is everything you are

and know 

inside out

on it’s head

arse over tit

the stuff you are made of 

trying to kill you

life against life

COME AGAIN?

Come again

-Come again?

Yes, come again

-You what?

I said come again

-Eh?

You heard, come again

-Pardon?

That’s right, come again,

it’s back, your cancer

-Shit

Shanghai, oh Shanghai

Shanghai’s Temple of Luxury, the Plaza 66 mall, where new standards of miserable service are set daily.  Shop assistants’ faces are fixed in expressions of empty, arrogant misery, varying in shade from mere disdain for most visitors, especially non-buyers, to fawning and obviously faux delight in the rare event of a purchase.  The general impression is of a large, mostly empty cathedral in which worshippers wander slowly through in awe at the branded marvels on offer, under the watchful eyes of sullen vergers.

Amongst the crowd of dawdling eye-shoppers, devotees move with the speed of purpose, adorned either with the products, usually a bag, belt, shoes, t-shirt, and for men a hat, or if neophytes with the large and visible carrier bags denoting their recent purchase of membership of this elite congregation.

Often older men stroll by with startlingly young, thin ladies on their arm, kitted out in very tight trousers or impossibly short skirts, totteringly high heels and smiles of acquisitory joy.  The man, usually stout, with dyed hair, trails an air of smug satisfaction at his wealth and prowess while satisfying her craving for expensive brands.

Most of the stores are empty for much of the day, save for their grim guardians, the exceptions being Louis Vuitton, Gucci, Chanel & Hermes, where occasionally entry needs to be controlled to prevent the crowds from enlivening the prevailing misery too much.

Like the expensive fashion they house, each store has to be expensively and regularly renewed.  These are after all the flagship stores, the opulent chapels of their sainted brand and their magic and power must be constantly enhanced to feed the devotees’ faith in their ability to transform and enrich their lives.

BLOOD

Blood

vitally viscous

coursing crimson 

through the miraculous labyrinth 

of my body

Surging, 

racing, 

pumping, 

eddying, 

oozing through every artery, vein and vessel

Carrying oxygen, life, DNA, family, 

nourishment, energy, warmth, healing, 

and identity to every cell

Giving form to my soul

spark to my neurons

flight to my thoughts

Blood lines

blood ties

blood brothers

blood thicker than water

blood and guts 

blood of Christ

blood that sustains us from one cell to a billion

Carrying disease and poison, 

bacterial and viral invaders

smoothly and quietly

to ambush life’s processes

at any and every stage

Serving two masters,

knowing and unknowing,

willing and unwilling,

helping to kill me 

as it surges to keep me alive

Blood and anti-blood

Back in Busan

Traffic crawls through the sprawling concrete, dragging us towards our hotel.  Busan looks better by night, in a veil of multi-coloured lights thrown across its hills and valleys, giving little clue to the urban mess beneath.

A new morning brings bright blue skies again and the sea sparkling like a jewelled blanket.  We head to Jagalchi Fish Market to wander through an astonishing selection of fish that has Sooka gasping with delight and hunger.  Everything is carefully and prettily laid out to attract buyers.  Long silver belt fish dazzle in rows in the sunlight; dried skate, emptied and skewered open like kites;  squid and octopus of every size, tentacles hanging down like bizarre wigs, some still alive in basins of water, squid aiming darts of water at the curious who get too close.  All as fresh as can be, clean smelling and surrounded by countless stalls ready to cook up your purchases in an instant.

The stall holders are all women, middle-aged or older, with the typical bonnet of tight curls denoting ‘ajumadom’ and tanned faces with ruddy cheeks that tell of a tough outdoor life.  They’re mostly cheerful, tolerating gawping unproductive tourists and clearly take pride in presenting their catch as neatly as they can.  Now and then an argument erupts as a grouchy grandma takes offence at an unheard slight and spits insults and imprecations at the offender in a voice sure to fright the days’ catch back to life.